


And all I can do

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fics [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gills, Hermaphroditic Trolls, M/M, Tentabulges, piercings in places there shouldn't be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eridan unwittingly scares the living daylights out of his matesprit, said matesprit very nearly strangles him for it, and then they decide to "break in" his desk instead.</p><p>No SGRUB AU, post successful coup, including Karkat "Trollkind As A Whole Shits Their Collective Pants In My Presence" Vantas and Eridan "Sometimes I'm Not An Entirely Fucked Up Waste Of Space" Ampora. Also piercings, gills and gill piercings in the context of hot, consensual if very upset sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And all I can do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous @ tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Anonymous+%40+tumblr).



“Oh fuck me,” you say, feeling your fins flattening against each side of your face as you brace yourself for impact. 

Few things in this side of the galaxy are quite as terrifying as Karkat Vantas, High Chancellor and Personal Advisor to the Empress. Rumor has it he’s never culled a single troll in his life, and yet he’s the oil that lovingly keeps the monstrous machinery that is the Empire working without a single squeak. You _know_ for a fact he’s never actually culled a single troll in his life, but that’s not to say he doesn’t know how to make a poor sod wish he would just put an end to their suffering. Karkat doesn’t need to murder people to get his point across. In fact, Karkat doesn’t need many things most high ranked trolls consider necessities, to get shit done and done _well_. That’s what makes him so terrifying. Sure, Feferi might have been the one that put a culling fork through the Empress and the one spearheading a very thorough overhaul of the Empire, but it was Karkat that _secured_ her an Empire, holding the fort those critical hours she was too damn near dead from her fight to even stand up on her own. He once stopped an entire fleet from revolting without a single shot fired, and you still can’t believe it even though you were standing right there when it happened. 

And now he’s storming up towards you, all of five feet five and hell written all over his face. The door hisses closed behind him and you feel your bilesack hit your knees, because Karkat’s expression is not softening even a bit. 

“You _wish_ , you nook-sucking, pan-rotten, bulge-munching, pail-licking disaster of a troll.” 

You’re so fucked. 

You don’t even know what you did this time, but like the majority of your most memorable fuckups, the less you know the more likely you are to get yelled at. If you’re lucky. If not, someone’s going to swoop in and beat the tar out of you. It’s okay, you suppose. You’re getting better at this whole not being the ultimate douchecanoe in the galaxy. You don’t have exactly the best track record and you know it. So you were dumb, when you were six. And you were dumber when you were twelve. And now you’re twenty and still dumb as bricks, but you’re _trying_. Most of the old group still looks at you with something like disdain, something like exasperation. You suppose you deserve it. But the point, you think, is that you’re trying. You weren’t trying, before. You said you were. When you were six and Fef broke up with you after one last tantrum that you still regret to this day. You said you were gonna try but all you did was be a brat and try to spread the misery around so it wasn’t just you feeling like regurgitated hoofbeast shit. 

And then at twelve, after the coup and the glorious, magnificent tantrum that should have seen you dead if not for Karkat bailing you out of it. You said you were gonna try, then, but all you did was make mess after mess, talking out of your ass like you knew what you were doing. Everyone else had so much to show for themselves: Aradia and her bottomless knowledge of ancient history and her kind words and being the moirail that Fef always needed and you never could be. And Tavros, for all his stuttering, using his ancestor’s name and glory to win over entire sections of the fleet. And Sollux holding the entire fucking Imperial network hostage on command and putting the fear of him in uppity highbloods like yourself. And Nepeta being cute and harmless and dumb, until she proved she’d wormed out as many incriminating secrets and as much blackmail material as she could, seemingly out of thin air. And Kanaya graciously informing Fef she had secured her considerable sway within the brooding caverns. And Terezi researching old laws and basically justifying each and every reform Fef could ever want to make. And Vriska being Vriska and being a gigantic disaster, except unlike you she was useful and lucky and secured allies and resources. And Equius, turning his hand and making his ridiculous obsession with nobility useful by herding more than a few highbloods to your side. And Gamzee, just waltzing in and claiming his ancestor’s rank and title and then putting them at the service of his moirail and his cause. And of course, the two heads running the show, Fef and Karkat, taking all that and putting it to good use in an operation that left most of trollkind reeling in shock. 

But you? What did you have to show for yourself? What alliances or pacts or privileges could you afford them? All you were ever good for was killing shit to feed Fef’s lusus and even that she’d done herself after you decided to be a jerk and tried to use even that as leverage to get yourself in her quadrants. What fucking use were you? None. Nil. Nada. Less than nothing. But it’s behind you now. You can’t fix it, because it’s _done_ , and Karkat won’t let you wallow on it, because you’re not a wiggler and self-deprecation ain’t sexy. So yes, you’re trying. You’ve been trying desperately, since the fateful night you got the full on Vantas treatment and got the harshest ultimatum of your life: either get your shit together or die trying. That getting yourself together also involved finding yourself in Karkat’s flushed quadrant is a small miracle you don’t allow yourself to question very often. Mostly because you’ve reached enough self-awareness to know one day he’s going to stop wasting his time on you and move on, and then you’re going to kneel over and die. 

So you keep trying instead. 

“Will it make it worse if I ask what I did?” You make your voice small and curl back into the depths of your chair, because then at least he won’t think you’re trying to cow him with that extra three feet you have on him. 

“I know you don’t know what you did,” Karkat hisses through clenched teeth and you decide that yes, not standing up was the right idea, when he gets all over your personal space, hands coming to grab the lapels of your uniform so he can pull you in and snarl right in your face. You might or might not be whimpering. “Because you’d be gloating like the insufferable bastard you are, Ampora, but that’s the only reason I haven’t throttled you until your fucking stupid empty head falls off your stupid fucking neck.” 

There’s a pause. 

“…okay?” 

Karkat makes a sound of frustration that does not bode well for you. 

“What were you doing last nights at 600 hours, Ampora?” He releases your jacket and you resist the urge to try and straighten it out, but only just barely. 

“…working?” You really wish you knew what you’d done, if only so you could stop asking tentative questions and feeling like you’re shooting in the dark. 

“You were fooling around in memos, you fucking moron,” and he’s back to pulling at your lapels. You wince. “You were running your fucking maw again and thinking with your goddamn bulge.” 

Oh. _Those_ memos. You swallow hard and lean back into your chair. So maybe you got a little flirty and a little teasing, there. But it’s not like you have a kismesis or anything. Just a random stranger getting frisky with you, and you being unable to resist temptation. It hadn’t really meant anything. They’d offered to meet you off-ship, but in the end you’d been too busy with work to actually show up. You didn’t really even bother to check the details of the meeting place, but you have that sinking feeling in your gut. 

“…was Captor stalking me again?” 

“Given than the only thing that brightens his fucking nights lately is reminding me all the ways my matesprit fucks up?” Karkat twitches, eyelid and mouth, and his grip on your jacket tightens even more. “Of course he was. You were blackflirting with one of the rogue Admiral’s kids.” 

You feel yourself paling, fins dropping a little. 

“You mean the…” 

Karkat snarls a little more. 

“If you had shown up you’d be _dead_ , Eridan.” 

Oh. 

Well then. 

“What happened?” 

You risk reaching out to hold him, pulling him into your lap. He ends up sitting on one of your thighs, still looking like he’s going to spontaneously combust at the drop of a hat. But hey, at least you didn’t really fuck up? Maybe? You get the feeling he’s more upset because he’s worried about you than him being angry because you managed to screw up. At least you hope so. 

“What do you _think_ happened?” Karkat growls into your collarbone, claws absently picking at your lapel some more. “Sollux traced the source, realized where it came from and mobilized a team to go save your ass. Except you never showed up.” 

“I was working,” you protest a little weakly, “I was not really going to—“ 

You want to ask if they captured the fucker, if maybe you can take a little credit for it. If maybe you did a good thing for a change, but Karkat is still glaring at you and you can’t figure out _why_. Karkat reaches up and grabs one of your horns, tilting your head and pressing his mouth against yours almost viciously. You don’t mind getting kissed – getting kissed is awesome – but there’s something inherently violent in the way his teeth keep catching your lips and you can’t help but think that if his teeth were a little less blunt you’d be bleeding already. He shifts in your lap, refusing to break the kiss and you feel your airsacks starting to burn with the need for breath as he settles on your thighs, knees digging hard into muscle. 

“If you need a black fuck that desperately, I’ll _give_ you one.” 

Your words dissolve into a keen as his teeth fasten themselves to your throat. He’s not biting hard enough to do any damage, but the gills on your neck are ridiculously sensitive and they _burn_ , caught in his mouth. He knows what the pain does to you. He knows, you’ve told him. He knows why you go slack under him, eyes unfocusing the moment you feel a tongue infinitely warmer than yours slide against the rim of a gill. Tendons usually keep them closed when you’re on dry land, and in space it has literally been sweeps since you last willingly went into water, but Karkat is both delicate and brutal in his onslaught, just barely touching because barely touching is more than enough to undo you so completely. 

Then he presses a little harder than before, maybe accidentally, but you keen all the same, because it _hurts_. 

Karkat is off your person in less than a heartbeat, looking at you through wide eyes as you melt into the chair, taking a moment to ride the shock of pain that your pan insists feels that good. You’d make a joke about it but he looks spooked and that’s a look that has no business being anywhere near Karkat Vantas. You push yourself off the chair and reach out for him, smiling hopefully. 

“Hey, hey, just so we’re on the same page here,” you say, wrapping your arms around him, and purposely ignoring the way he’s squirming, “are you flipping on me or not?” 

“I swear to—“ 

You kiss him. He kisses back for maybe half a minute before remembering he’s mad at you and then he bites you and pulls back with a snarl. 

“You could have _died_ ,” and that’s all you really need to know, honestly, before you kiss him again. 

It lasts longer this time, with less teeth and more tongue, and you make a warbly sound in the back of your throat when his hands slide under the jacket to tease your sides and make your toes curls despite the layers of fabric in the way. The rings along the edge of your opercular flaps are your one true weakness and he knows it. You moan as he takes the lead, with the same purposeful determination he does everything else. 

“If you don’t have a pail in your sylladex, I’m going to be very disappointed, Chancellor.” 

You love the way color blooms under his skin. Most people would mistake him for a rust, if not for the vibrant, breathtaking hue of his eyes. He shoves you back a little, miffed and theatrical as ever, but there’s always a soft edge to his roughness. You can’t help but pity him with every ounce of your soul. You’ve adored him since the first time you successfully read the kindness behind everything he did. You wanted to wrap yourself around him and shelter him from the world. You still do, even if you need him saving your ass more often than the other way around. You grin when he bares his teeth at you, defensive and embarrassed and _perfect_. 

“Maybe I do,” he bites out, eyes narrowed and refusing to look away. “What about it?” 

“Just wondering if you’re finally gonna let me break in the new desk,” you step back so you can lean your hip against it. It’s a nice, solid desk. Pretty much the standard for administrative folk like you. You grin. “That and a casual reminder that your kismesis is probably watching this because he’s enough of a jerk to have wired my office.” 

You watch avidly as Karkat’s expression remains frozen in place, carefully concealing the wheels turning inside his skull. You can almost hear the moment his pan goes _ping_. You grin as he flings himself at you, mouth seeking yours and hands going back to holding your lapels almost savagely. You bend back into the desk without a single protest, burying one hand into his hair and the other reaching out to hold onto the edge of the desk for leverage. His mouth is warm and demanding, but you’ll be forever amused at the restraint and reverence with which he works you out of your clothes. That’s not to say he’s not _fast_ about it, of course, but he’s so very gentle with the jacket, smoothing down the lapels before tugging it off your shoulders. One day, you think, you’ll manage to make him desperate enough that he can bring himself to potentially damage your clothes. That day, however, is not today. But it’s alright, either way, because he works the buttons down your shirt and then shoves the undershirt up and by the time he’s peeling off the bandages wrapped around your gills you’re a terrible mess of hormones sprawled on the desk. 

“Next time you scare me like that,” Karkat snaps, tugging on the gauze and making you shiver as the flaps of skin tense and twitch under the softest touch, “I’m going to cull your fucking useless ass, Eridan. See if that teaches you to give me a fucking panic attack in the middle of a conference with two Admirals and an embassador.” 

“Isn’t that a bit counterproduc--- _oh_.” 

Your laughter dies in your throat as Karkat runs his tongue along the slit of the lowermost gill on your left side, tugging on each ring a little as he goes. The rings, though you’ll never confess to anyone, were a dare from a tealblood you bunked with during admin schoolfeeding. Your first grand victory, while your friends – if you could really call them friends back then – scrambled to organize the Empire they’d just conquered, you learned the ins and outs of running a ship with midbloods and earned their respect by getting yourself a needle addiction. They’re a stupid, stupid idea, those rings, gleaming gold and evenly distributed on your sides. All it’d take is for someone to get smart and try to tear one off for you to be out for the count. Karkat tried to make you get rid of them for the longest time, but you didn’t want to. They’re _yours_. So everyone else has battle scars and stories from the coup. All you have is an inordinate amount of protocols and regulations memorized to the t, and then sixteen little rings hanging off your opecular flaps; you’ve added one for each sweep, though given your potential lifespan that might not be a good idea. No one knows about them, but Karkat. And your old bunkmates, you suppose, but you’re pretty sure they’d assume you were smart enough to take them off once you actually had to serve on a ship. Because they’re rings. On your fucking gills. Acceptable bragging rights within the relative safety of the Academy, but absolutely unacceptable in the very real danger of a ship. And because for some reason most of them walked out of graduation with the vague certainty that you weren’t a _complete_ moron. 

You’re a moron. 

A horny, desperate, shameless moron. You become a boneless heap on the desk as Karkat presses small, delicate kisses along each gill, tongue teasing the skin around each ring before gently tugging them with his lips, not even his teeth. You’re pretty sure part of the reason he’s given up trying to fight you about it is because he’s not even halfway done when you’re already rolling your hips up against him, whines growing more and more high pitched each time. 

“God, you’re disastrous,” but Karkat’s voice is low and rough and heated, and his eyes are all but glowing as he works boots, pants and underwear off your hips with the same practiced ease you strip your rifle. “Not even going to help, huh?” 

You rise up on an elbow, bending one leg up and resting a foot on the edge of the desk, next to your hand. Even if you didn’t feel the air against your bulge and your nook, you’d know he can see you very clearly by the sudden intake of breath. You hold the posture easily, drinking in the way he stares at every detail and not even pretending you’re not enjoying the attention. 

“It’s _my_ desk,” you say, trying to pull your best snotty highblood brat impression from memory. “Why should _I_ do the work?” 

“Maybe because you made me think, even for a second, that you were _dead_.” The playfulness shrivels up and dies, as you realize just how upset he is. You shift to sit at the edge of the desk and draw him in for a hug, one hand clutching at his back and the other buried into his hair. Karkat makes a frustrated sound. “And now you’re smearing my pants violet. My uniform is fucking white, Eridan, thanks a fucking lot, you ass—“ 

You kiss him like he’s the last breath of air you’ll ever have in your life. You kiss him until he stops squirming in your arms and starts clinging, and even still until his hips are rolling against yours and there’s definitely a smear on his clothes. You only let him go when his pants are on the floor and there’s something hot and wet and eager teasing the edges of your nook, as if it’s not entirely familiar with the layout. You keen into his forehead, fingers clutching desperately at his back, when his bulge presses hard enough the tip slides in maybe an inch. 

“Flushed for you,” you whisper into his ear, because you know how much it means to him, and it makes him groan and press harder into you. 

Sometimes it’s just about the little things, you suppose. You’ve become a master of the little things, because you’re kind of terrible at anything else. And then he’s inside you, so all you can do is arch your back and hope you have enough leverage to roll your hips against his. He’s _hot_. Scorchingly, searingly hot. Sometimes you’re not sure you can stand it, the way he twists and curls inside you, like a white hot whip. You can feel him inside you, every twitch and twist of his bulge leaves your insides twitching and recoiling, because he almost hurts but not quite. He feels so gloriously, staggeringly _good_ inside you. 

“Oh my god, shut the fuck _up_.” 

You want to laugh, not even a little flustered to realize you were babbling out loud, but then he punctuates the order with a sharp snap of his hips, ensuring his bulge is inside you as far as it’ll go and a hand tugging at the base of yours. You fall back against the desk, horns scratching the surface as you writhe. You’re pretty sure there’s sound coming out of your throat but you don’t think it qualifies as words. You can tell he’s getting close, catching up with you, because his grip on your thighs is almost bruising and if you weren’t still holding onto the edge of the desk, the force of each thrust would be making you slide on it. 

The way you’re sprawled on the desk, you can’t feel or see the pail, but you know the moment he puts it on the floor beneath your hips because the drips of lubrication hit it in soft, almost imperceptible sounds that hit _something_ in your pan and flip a switch. You’re sobbing when you lose it, it just feels that fucking good. Somewhere in the distance, perhaps three solar systems away, you hear Karkat reach his own climax, breaking down into the most endearing fit of profanity. You wish you could make out the words, but your ears are ringing and your entire body feels like an overexposed nerve ending. 

An eternity and a half later, you stop shaking enough to pull yourself up into a passable seating position. Karkat is sprawled back in your chair, which looks almost entirely too big for him and makes your insides twist and turn with the urge to go over there and wrap yourself around him. 

“When I’m done feeling okay with the fucking universe at large,” Karkat says, slurring his words and giving you the most knee-destroying smile you’ve ever seen in your sorry life, “I’m going to strangle you and make you very, very sorry for making me worry about your stupid, empty-headed carcass.” 

You slide down onto the floor and almost manage to make the flop onto your knees seem intentional. Karkat’s sprawled on your plushy chair, bulge still exposed and twitchy and just the smallest smear of bright, cherry red staining the seat. You lick your lips, hands sliding along his knees and up his thighs, gently nudging his legs apart. 

“Any chance I can delay the inevitable?” But the question seems almost a formality, with a hand already combing through your hair. 

“Maybe.” 

So you lean in, tongue first, and give it a try. 

  


* * *

  


_In the days I was singing just for fun,_  
 _I was escaping into it as I was scared to know the answer._  
 _Now I want many people to listen to my song. That's narcissism turned inside out._  
 _Even if I sing till my heart gets worn out, I won't be able to find the answer._  
 _Gazing at the horizon of the world that no one knows when it ends,_  
 _I sing alone._  
 _All I can do is singing. If I ran away, my way will be darken._  
 _The staff notation continues forever. "For what?"_  
  


~ Hatsune Miku, “Endless Score.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon in tumblr, I hope you enjoy it. A bit kinkier than my usual fare, but it was fun to write.


End file.
